Baba O'Riley
by Sinistra Black
Summary: AU - Harry, a young student, barges on a rainy day into Baba O'Riley. This place is a bookshop where anyone is allowed at any given time. It's the gathering of very different people who are forced to cohabit. Why did this Mel transform his home into Baba O'Riley? Who is Lithium? Why are Luna and Lee always hanging around the place?


******BABA O'RILEY**

******by**

_D. Would_

**Translation: **Sinistra Black

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of JK Rowling. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

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**Single 1: « Who Are You? »**

"**Who Are You" – The Who. 1978. 6 min 31 track. British rock with a psychedelic sound. Chimes of electric guitars. Chorus as enchanting as a prayer. Roger Daltrey's voice. Epic song, a millionth time covered. Almost poetic lyrics. A subway story in the London of the seventies. A confused guy in a useless self-searching journey. Balance between octo and decasyllable**

_I woke up in a Soho doorway  
A policeman knew my name  
He said "You can go sleep at home tonight  
If you can get up and walk away"_

_I staggered back to the underground  
And the breeze blew back my hair  
I remember throwin' punches around  
And preachin' from my chair_

« I was born with a plastic spoon in my mouth » Meaty Beaty Big And Bouncy, The Who.

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"_Little by little, the writer makes its nest"._ This was the engraved maxim on the sign outside Baba O'Riley, second hand book shop.

It was the asshole of the world: A tight façade for profound digs. One could find forgotten used books from the Victorian era for only three penny. Every Tuesday, a muscle man came in to refill the inventory with more volumes—volumes which were basically unsellable elsewhere; some complete failures of any and every kind and, sometimes, some brilliant pieces of prose which subtlety wouldn't be understood by average readers.

There were no bestsellers in Baba O'Riley, and if one of those happened to cross the doorstep of the place, it disappeared quickly in the depth of the burning woodstove where ashes were stirred every half hour in the winter. Generally, the owner of the shop – Mel – would relish in the furious destruction of the infamous vampire book series signed Meyer, while squeaking with utter pleasure. The smoke filled the air with a bitter smell, as if the disgusting perfume was a significant taleteller on the quality of the book itself. Mel could remember throwing a Charlotte Bronte in the furnace once by mistake; a tender jasmine scent had spread in the shop then.

The warmer of Baba O'Riley sat in the middle of a kind of barely lit living-room. There was an oil lamp, a lovely decorated candelabra as well as vibrant blue neon hidden behind a wooden china shadow frame. The bluish neon light created a psychedelic combination with the rest of the décor. Everything was mismatched with no sense of order whatsoever. Mel shopped. Mel bought. Mel piled up.

Baba O'Riley was Ali Baba's cave. There were books alright, but one could also find a phonograph, an impressive collection of vinyl records, a juke-box, a giant chessboard with chess pieces in the shape of various fruits and vegetables, folders filled with photographs of World War II, a crust of junky artists willing to exchange some sketches for the last book in vogue in Soho, pieces of clothing that allegedly belonged to Bob Dylan, some uncensored Disney movies, a Crystal Phallus which served as a paperweight and, most importantly, the complete discography of The Who.

The British band had been in the café-bookstore, some years ago. That was the main reason behind Mel renaming the place 'Baba O'Riley' in their honour. He was particularly proud to show everyone who asked for the story a picture of the group that never left his wallet. The picture rested beside the one of his dog, One Gramm, a senile Chihuahua which peed pretty much everywhere in the store according to its mood. One Gramm was so tiny that most visitors didn't see it, ending up almost crushing it.

That was what happened to Harry Potter the first time he set foot in Baba O'Riley.

It was raining heavily on London. That day, he'd been walking around the city between two classes; the first one had taken place in the morning and he had to wait for late afternoon to attend the latter. Bloody administration board! He'd decided to go for a stroll until the pouring rain had driven him to find shelter in the bookshop.

Mel had superbly ignored him, a Viking helmet-like headphones screwed on his head. He was listening to Deep Purple, playing electronic air guitar against his T-shirt. Harry had stepped in shyly and stood in front of a piece of paper where the hours of the bookstore-café were jotted down: _Open Monday through Sunday, from 7 AM to 2 AM._

Harry lifted a brow at that; this guy never slept or what? He took off his wet Nubuck leather and placed it on an Ostrich's leg shaped coat hanger and quickly went to stand by the wood stove in the centre of the nearest room.

A guy, with long hair tied back in a ponytail, stared at him as he came in, licking the paper of his cigarette. He had a magazine open on his lap on an article about the vaccine against Polio. The pages were coated with dust. The discovery of the Polio vaccine dated to 1953. The man winked at him. There was an empty seat left beside him on the couch.

Harry turned around, offering his back to the stranger and let a finger run across the book spines on the shelves. There was no inventory, no order. Organization seemed to be a banished word between these walls. Everything was upside-down. The mess of a man who'd lost his mind after hitting fifty. Harry thought he sure had definitely lost his when he entered the Baba O'Riley.

It was the lair of aesthete bums, of rock purists, of drug addicts addicted to Oscar Wilde and with a keen interest for French poetry, the harem of white-collars hooked on carnal writings, verse-smokers; the haven of modern British literature students.

Baba O'Riley was the catacombs of a fallen London.

Harry was both feet in, his fingers gracing volume upon volume, cover upon cover, and title upon title. He stopped upon a coffee table book about the life of Keith Harring. Distractedly, he leafed through the book, standing near the bookshelves. He felt a burning stare against the nape of his neck. Burning like the cigarette butt between the lips of that stranger.

By the looks of it, the man must've been no more than ten years older than him. Tall, well-built, a _Skin_ who was off base, a damn fine light-catching skin (even though light wasn't really present in Baba O'Riley), blue eyes (or was it a simple effect of the buzzing neon nearby?), scarred hands, broad shoulders covered by a brown leather jacket and practically flaming red hair.

Harry had made a note of these details in a corner of his mind in a matter of seconds. He was handsome, that prick. Harry was positive that if he'd turn around, the guy would most likely designate the seat next to him with a slight nod, or observe him with curiosity, or ask him what was hidden behind his soaking clothes…

"Bill, I told you that I'd not tolerate weed in here!" growled a cavernous voice. Harry turned around. The owner was suddenly up on his feet and looking furious. His Viking headphones were misplaced and his bushy beard trembled at every word he spoke.

"What if there's an Aurors swoop down, huh?"

"Aurors?" Questioned Bill puzzled, taking a puff of his join. "Is it another one of your slang talk Mel?"

"That's what we call the cops around here," informed a woman with purple hair and ears covered with piercings.

She wore a black strapped top underneath a fishnet t-shirt of the same colour and a pair of baggy jeans which revealed a tattooed hip. She sat cross-legged on a wide armchair with traditional Scottish motifs, a satanic bible resting on her lap. Looking alternatively between Mel and Bill, she played absentmindedly with her wood bead necklace. Said-Bill handed his join to the person next to him.

There sat a black guy with dreadlocks. His eyes seemed malicious and twinkled with a certain _je-ne-sais-quoi._ He took the weed and inhaled a few puffs before giving it to someone else. The joint ended up between the fingers and lips of a girl with long wavy blond hair, who looked even more extroversive than a British pop star. She wore huge glasses – the right one was tainted azure while the left one was pink. It seemed that she was the youngest out of them all. She stared at Harry for a long time before handing him the joint amiably.

"Do you want to smoke the peace pipe with us?" she asked with a dreamy voice. "I'm Luna Lovegood. Please, take a seat."

Not wanting to attracted more attention than his was already getting, Harry took the designated place; next to Bill. The guy could have provided enough warmth for the whole Baba O'Riley on his own; his skin was burning up while it still rained outside. Or perhaps was Harry the one feeling suddenly flushed?

"You never told us your name," Luna persisted cocking her head at Harry's refusal to take the weed.

"Harry," he said, "just Harry,"

"Oh well nice to meet you Just," exclaimed the girl, finishing off the smoke trivially.

The purple haired one pouted apolitically and leaned over him. "She's out of her mind stoned," she pointed out, uselessly. "I'm Tonks, the guy over there is Lee and next to you is, well…Bill. Tell me, Harry, what brought you here? You don't seem like the type of person one would find in this place; you look more like a nice cut-and-dry boy, well balanced, thoughtful. You don't look the part. Well, if we take Lithium into account, you sure do… "

"Lithium?" noted Harry with a deep frown.

"He's a bloke who has everything except for a deranged look—a true Nazi product. A mechanical rigor, a German punctuality and an Aryan face. He doesn't talk, just takes a book after seven minutes and fifty two seconds – we always time him, Luna and me –, then he signs Mel's register and leaves. He usually borrows the most insane books! Last time, it was a volume on steel industry at the beginning of the nineteen hundreds, in East Africa."

"A mind of steel," Bill concluded, throwing his head back. "At least, he brings a bit of distraction in this cesspit…"

"This cesspit is my home!" screamed out Mel. "If you're not happy about it, you can always piss off, wanker. Maybe your mother would be glad to see your bloody face. Give Molly my best. I'm tired of wiping your drool, Bill. Go back home and take a shower. You stink of misplaced arrogance."

"Go get your dog to wipe your arse," snarled Bill.

Mel vaguely shrugged and went away, mumbling some more insults in his beard. Luna burst out laughing and Tonks got back to her bible. Bill wiggled on the sofa and turned another page of his medical journal.

"Tell me something, Just Harry, where did you come from? What do you do in life? What are you doing here, so far from the beaten tracks?"

Harry was about to tell the truth when he stopped. It looked disreputable to tell people that he came in because of the rain and that he regretted stumbling upon their band of oblivious junkies and separatists.

"Listen up," said Lee brandishing a book of contemporary Russian poetry, "God is a kid playing with his dollhouse. For hours, to them he whispers his truth. The finger of the angel resting on their sealed lips. The man swiftly dismembered by…"

A small group of boys gathered around him and listened intently. Tonks looked up from her book and Luna was in complete awe. She was stretched out in a chintz armchair and babbled away nonsense to her index finger. Bill shifted closer to Harry and the murmur of his voice intertwined with the sound of the tam-tam that was guiding Lee's recitation. "So? You're not answering anymore?" he asked. "You don't talk to strangers? Mmh, I understand, my mum gave me the same advice once."

He went back to his reading, completely absorbed by it, as if he actually was sitting in a quiet library. Harry, on the other hand, could barely focus.

Baba O'Riley was a fascinating place. A girl approximately his age passed around a platter of god-awful ginger biscuits. This happened to be a bit of a hazing as no one took any except Harry who, out of politeness, had forced down a first bit. Bill hid his laughter behind a rather loud cough which earned him the menacing glares of Lee's audience.

"And in the chaos of the toy box," Lee recited in his baritone voice, "humanity rested."

"I've always loved books," Harry whispered in Bill's ear, regretting his words as they came out of his mouth. "I mean, I'm not a…bookworm or anything but sometimes I read and I… like that sort of things."

"What do you like most about reading?" Bill inquired suddenly interested.

"I…well, it's kind of hard to tell. I guess it's an ensemble of things: the feeling of being transported when it's only just words, the magic of a quill, the smell of books, the purrs of the pages, imagining how such story came to bloom in the mind of a person, draw from the details and find some tip of the hat to others. How about you? What do you like about it?"

Bill stared at him for an instant, focusing on his green eyes then his attention shifted to his science magazine.

"What I like about books, it's that they don't have a grave. Men die but their words don't. Despite the dust, the flames, the years, there's only someone to remember them. It's like grazing immortality."

Harry smiled gently, appreciating the flavour of the words and the depth of the thought. He understood what Bill meant. Absently, he turned a page of his coffee-table-book. He came across some representation by Keith Harring where two characters where embracing tightly. His finger graced the surface of the glazed paper as a rush of memories sped through his mind.

"Apart from reading," Bill's voice sounded far-off, "what do you like to do?"

His ton was suggestive enough and his hand, pressed against Harry's thigh, utterly pointless: He had gotten the message loud and clear.

In his head, he added more information to the overall picture of Bill: older; tall; well-built; off base _Skin_; damn fine light-catching skin; blue eyes; scarred hands. Broad shoulders covered by a brown leather jacket and practically flaming red hair; snake-fang like earing; the mesmerizing voice of a crooner; cute nose; slight chin dimple; navy blue V-neck t-shirt that revealed the beginning of a strong torso; ring at his left finger and another at his right ring finger. Yet another scar across his brow. A soft touch when his hand brushed his. Electricity filled the air when he tipped his chin toward the staircase. Beautiful buttocks moulded in low cut jeans which showed the elastic of boxer briefs. A faint odour of some eau-de-toilette in his wake as he walked up the steps. A teasing stare in this silent invitation at the sound of the tam-tams. Such a unique way of climbing up the stairs with measured pace. A tempting back and hungry mouth that crushed against his.

Harry found himself against his body without being able to fight it. He really wanted this. Here, now, in this self-service shack that passed for a bookshop, in a room used by anyone, screwing under a fanlight over which the falling rain drummed fervently.

Impatiently, Bill closed the door and unbuttoned Harry's shirt. The pad stunk of mildew as if the walls were made of sponges. The cover over the bed itched and the few pieces of furniture looked so worn-out that they gave the impression of waiting to collapse at any time.

Harry took off his shirt and threw it away like it didn't matter then climbed on the bed. He was kneeling atop it, kissing Bill's clavicle. Bloody hell, he was about to fuck with a complete stranger. Fantasy number four: fulfilled

His fingers flew over a milky torso covered with scars. Harry wondered what the guy could possibly be doing with his damn existence that left so many marks on his flesh—lion tamer, quite possibly? Determined to dominate him in all his glory, Harry pushed on the bed and rode his mount. Bill smirked and his hands reached for his sides.

"Already?" Harry whispered, rubbing himself off of the guy's erection.

"I'm ravenous."

As if to illustrate his words, Bill planted his canines in Harry's arm, torso and neck with a smile dancing on his lips. Downstairs, Mel turned up the volume of the music to a maximum: 'Who Are You' drilled into their skulls.

"Mel always puts music on whenever something like this happens," Bill informed, panting between two languishing kisses. "He says that he's fed up of hearing wet-noises and cries while he's attempting to watch the news."

"People often come to…do it here?" Harry tensed anxiously. "These sheets must not be very clean and…"

"The last person to use the room has to clean it; that's the deal. I'll take them to the Laundromat later. Let's focus on us instead, shall we? I'm trying to read the words on your skin."

Harry moaned approvingly and the sound of it was swallowed by The Who. His hips already starting to undulate in rhythm: his body dancing to the melodies of the devil. Bill was beautiful in his pleasure; a man that gave his all to Gomorrah. Harry unzipped his jeans and tucked Bill's down.

Everything was done in frenzy.

No time to waste on foreplay – those things were for little stuck-up virgins. No time for sweet pillow talk either.

Just him, and Bill.

Bill, who dove inside him deeper and deeper, his shaft protected by a condom, impaling himself between Harry's thighs. With half closed lids, he could make out Bill's features as the man groaned louder and louder. He gripped his navy blue shirt tighter at each in-and-out, his head slightly tilted backwards.

He'd stepped inside Baba O'Riley less than half an hour ago, had leafed through a book, introduced himself, answered a stranger's advances and was now on top of him, fucking. Harry didn't know whether someone around Baba O'Riley had already been pledged with the reputation of a slut, but if that wasn't the case, he may just have acquired the title hands down.

The bed shrieked. Bill's hips were buckling up and down. He couldn't take it anymore. Harry was enjoying his rodeo. They were possessed by the voodoo of an improbable orgasm: most of the unexpected shags were rarely the best. But how can one resist such strong beckoning to depravity? In retrospect, the joint they had offered him earlier seemed so dull.

Bill moaned one last time while his chest rose repeatedly.

"And apart from this, what do you do in life?" Bill inquired, blown away.

Harry laughed lightly and let himself slide onto his side. This pad was absolutely sordid; suffice to see how black the ceiling was. He wondered whether Mel really lived here. If that were the case, it was quite a peculiar way of living, leaving the door open to everyone and anyone.

"Bill?" Harry questioned slowly, "are we in Mel's bedroom?"

"Oh, no! Here it's where the nefarious shagging takes place. Mel's room is on the other end of the hall; no one is ever allowed there. It's his universe, you know?"

"It must be freaking expensive to afford transforming your house into a bookshop; all the water, electricity, internet, food and phone expenses, not to mention all the books, the furniture and the housework!"

"We set up a kind of mutual fund to help him out with all the bills. However, he refuses to take our money each month; he says that at our age, we should be saving it to entertain some high-class hooker, for scoring weed, or buying concert tickets. This place is like everyone's home. We all have a reason for being here…I mean, you do plan on coming back, right?"

Harry didn't say anything. The contact of his skin against the sheets was unpleasant. He twisted on the mattress and scratched his forearm. What the hell did he mean by 'you do plan on coming back'? Did Bill seriously think that this, whatever it was, had a next chapter?

"Bill, you're scaring me right now," he confided in a hushed tone.

"Why do I scare you?"

"I don't like it—you thinking that there could be a next time between us when…well, you know, it was all for fun. I don't believe I'll be coming back here, that's all."

Harry swallowed thickly and raising his hips, pulled up his denims and buttoned them nervously. He found his shirt crumpled up in a ball on the floor and put it back on. Bill didn't move, he was still lying down, his briefs pushed down, his t-shirt pulled up.

"I have to say," Harry said while tying up his shoes, "screwing random strangers is my favourite hobby."

"Oh I see," Bill's voice was gloomy as he started to rearrange his demeanour. "I didn't peg you for…that kind of person. I thought that you'd cling to me and beg me to keep you. I imagined that you were some kind of stuck-up student – a bit of a Gary Stu around the edges."

"I'm at that age when you understand the difference between shagging, fornicating, sleeping with and making love to," Harry smiled faintly.

"And what are the different levels?"

"Shagging is bestial need, a kind of impulsion. Fornicating is depravation, lustiness in the rough. Sleeping with someone is a one night stand which occurs in a mutual respect but with no strings attached. And making love is above them all, above everything," Harry explained, fully dressed now. "We shag to techno. We fornicate to rock. We sleep with someone to some soul and we make love to classical music."

"Then we just fornicated to The Who," Bill remarked, "that's what you are trying to tell me?"

"I wasn't trying to tell you anything; you figured it out on your own."

Mel's sound system was vomiting the last notes of 'Who Are You'. Bill opened the door and went back downstairs without as much as a glance toward him. Harry stood there a few more seconds before joining him on the first floor. He took his leather vest and grabbed a random book from a box which content was gradually nurturing the fire. Bill licked his lips when he passed by him as if to say something to him but Harry cut him off before he got the chance to.

"It was fun but I'm already involved with someone."

He made his way through the hall and closed the door behind him, allowing the smell of the rain to invade Baba O'Riley.


End file.
